


Moments of Lost Time

by tryslora



Series: Weavers [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Community: fullmoon_ficlet, Forgetting, Gen, Memories, Memory Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles needs something. The problem is, he can’t afford to remember what that is. Sometimes paranoia goes a bit far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moments of Lost Time

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for Prompt #8 - Memories at fullmoon_ficlet on Livejournal. It may or may not be a background piece for the Weavers, I don't know yet. I just wanted to noodle around not so much with the idea of memories for this one, but rather with the idea of memory magic, and forgetting. As always, I don't own the world or characters of Teen Wolf, but I had fun playing with them.
> 
> ETA: I'm adding this to the Series for Weavers. Whether it is or isn't background, it keeps being in my mind for it, so I want it collected with the others.

Danny’s nursing a coffee when Stiles walks into the coffee shop. Danny chokes, almost burning his tongue (and his lungs) on the hot liquid, but Stiles just drops into the chair across the table from him.

“Dude, I am so glad you are predictable.” Stiles runs his hands through his hair, longer than Danny remembers it ever being except for that short while in the start of their junior year. “It makes this so much easier.”

“I’m predictable?” Danny pushes the coffee to one side. “Stiles, I haven’t even _seen_ you in four years. How would you even know that I’m predictable?”

Stiles leans forward, hands clasped on the table, fingers tight as if to keep himself from flailing the way he can sometimes when talking. “Six months,” he says, voice low. “And please don’t yell my name like that. This is hard enough without someone telling someone and it spiraling out of control. It’ll just be five minutes, I swear, and we’ll be done and you can forget all about me again.”

There’s something about the way he says it that tells Danny he _means_ it. Because Danny doesn’t remember seeing Stiles at all in the last four years and if he _did_ , that memory is gone. But this is Stiles, and maybe he’s just… stalking people? Danny doesn’t even know what to think, so he asks plainly. “What is this about, Stiles?”

“This is the last time, I swear.” Stiles pulls a laptop out of his bag and fiddles with it before handing it over to Danny. “I’ve still got that stuff you put on it for jumping through hoops and servers in random countries, but you’ll need to do your thing to make it all work.”

Danny blinks because yeah, that’s his favorite _let’s pretend I’m not me_ rerouting software but why is it on Stiles’s laptop? “And just what is it that I’m making work?”

“It’s all right here.” Stiles opens a file and pushes it towards Danny. “When you’re done, make sure to delete it. All of it. This is the last time dude, and you can’t leave any of it on my computer, okay?”

Danny doesn’t understand, but it’s too interesting a setup not to at least take a look.

Three hours later, Stiles leaves the coffee shop and Danny sits there finishing off a fresh cup of coffee, wondering where the time went and why Isaac never showed. At least the people watching is interesting, but his butt’s getting numb and it’s time to move on.

He crunches the cup into a ball and tosses it in the trash. Outside, Stiles watches him go but Danny never even looks his way. It’s as if Stiles doesn’t exist.

#

Stiles drives out of Beacon Hills. He drives all the way back to his apartment and he sits in the car, fingers wrapped around the steering wheel and holding on too tight. He breathes in deeply and it only takes a moment and the cord is cut.

His gaze drops to the bag on the seat beside him, his brow furrowing in a frown. Why does he have an overnight bag? A quick glance at the odometer and he knows he has been _somewhere_ but he has no idea where.

It’s happened before, these moments of forgetting, of losing time. He knows there will be no clues, no pieces to the puzzle left behind other than less cash in his bank account and a day or two gone from his life. He never tells anyone before he goes, never leaves himself any way to know what he’s done.

He only hopes it was for a good cause. Maybe someday he’ll let himself know what he’s been up to.


End file.
